late

I was late to the crucifixion.
the morning sky was wrinkled
and your watch had been laundered and pressed


upon my forehead, a light grew up and in
blasting matter on the headboard.


I watched his body fold over soldiers
white, wet slapping limbs upon leather
eyes open and stuck dry in my pockets.


I believed then you might save my seat at the opera
a song about being a child and making a man
played between your fingerslips  
the melody to graze my forgetfulness


I remembered there is no time inside
a glass trapping benevolence
Revelation sees the dead are dark
and that the moon is not a star.